The Revolt
by Scriptorial Therapy
Summary: Rose Weasley is about to begin her fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But while she is waging a cold war with Scorpius Malfoy on the home front, the Wizarding World is about to break out into political and social revolution.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

One would have expected change, especially after a war was won. But the war hadn't really changed anything.

Perhaps my phrasing is wrong, I apologise. Some things changed. Surface things. Attitudes seemed to have shifted. Tolerance, the defining twenty-first century value, was now in vogue.

Sometimes, we must examine closely what is tolerated.

This story isn't a simple one. It begins in the summer of 2021, with the possibility of a revolution brewing in the wizarding world.

* * *

Teddy Lupin grew up in a time where people were looking for a reason to rebel. Everyone wanted to count themselves into the minority, because that made them a majority. Teddy was no different.

In retrospection, Teddy would look back and realise he only enjoyed being a rebel with a cause because it provided some justification for his rebellion. He liked to pick fights and point fingers.

He wasn't a revolutionary; he was just angry.

Nevertheless, rebellion fit Teddy like a dragon-hide glove, because of who his parents had been and why they had died. Teddy Lupin was born out of their death. (It was his defining trait, more than his blue hair and piercings.) Consequentially, he had a chip on his shoulder. He had to make up for his parents' lost time. He had to live, and live big, because they couldn't. So, when you were with Teddy Lupin, you could expect action.

Teddy with the blue hair. Teddy with the tattoos. Teddy with the cheeky grin and the insolence and the lazy way he talked.

In the summer of 2021, Teddy became mixed up in what would be a key factor of the rebellion. It began as a usual day—all important days do—in which he threw on his clothes, pawed through his icebox and made his way down to Diagon Alley for work with a cold bottle of pumpkin juice in hand. He greeted Hannah Longbottom as he sauntered through the Leaky Cauldron. He tapped his wand on the familiar bricks of the courtyard and watched them waltz aside. Up until then, it was like any other day.

_Bang!_

The explosive sound echoed down the strip, and was answered with screams.

There was commotion outside of Gringotts. People stood about in mobs, spilling down the marble steps, attempting to jostle their way to the front. Security was trying in vain to disperse the crowd. Teddy, sensing the tension, immediately began to ebb closer. Angry insults were hurled towards the guards. At the epicentre of the mob, violence broke out with the sound of several popping spells and bright red sparks. The crowd surged forward.

Teddy wore a look of contempt. Gringotts had been closed because the goblins were on strike. He yelled out some abusive remarks to the wizards and witches trying to get in. "It never occurred to them until now just how much they need goblins to get their gold," he said out loud, venting his vitriol to no one in particular.

Eventually, Teddy had to move along, despite the desire to stay and inflame the protestors. He pushed his way towards one of the flash office buildings that had sprung up in recent years. Upon leaving school, Teddy had interned at a social welfare agency and swiftly made his way up the ranks. People greeted him like a hero, slapping him on the back as he passed through the narrow hallways. It took him a moment to locate Digby Mullins, who was scratching out memos with a silver quill.

"Mate, have you seen the mess outside?"

"I'm onto it," Digby replied.

They had been rallying against the Wizarding Rights Commission, trying to argue that goblins should be allowed to carry wands.

"We need to go further than the petition," Teddy said, leaning over to read Digby's memo. "We need to push this harder."

* * *

Meanwhile, the Notts were also struggling to remain apace with the current socioeconomic trends threatening their familiar system. The small family sat that evening around their enormous mahogany dinner table, served by several well-dressed house-elves. Edgar Nott was eating his dinner with what could be perceived as extreme ferocity. He was a tall man with a beanpole stature and brittle, black hair slicked over his forehead. Rarely would he abandon his manners when eating a meal, so the aggressive way in which he was stabbing his potatoes was very out of character. His wife reproachfully watched him as he attacked the food.

Edgar Nott was the capital of industry in Parchment manufacturing, and as boring as that sounded, it made their family very wealthy. They had become accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Parents, particularly parents that spoil their children, avoid discussing financial issues in front of their offspring at all costs. Isabella Nott was completely engrossed in dissecting her quail, examining each piece before popping it into her mouth. She was conspicuously fifteen and careless when it came to gold. Money had always been at her disposable, and although she was never one to boast about her wealth, neither was she one to complain about it. Hearing an argument about economic instability would surely put her off her dinner.

However, for the adults, the silence was excruciating. The tension grew in palpability. Edgar Nott dropped his cutlery with a clatter. He dabbed his sweating face with a napkin. His wife reached across the long dinning table to place a consolatory hand upon his shoulder. "Everything will be fine, dear."

"It's a damn two year recession, Pansy. Everything is not fine." His whisper was harsh, easily heard by his daughter, but just as easily ignored.

"Please, there isn't any need for stress," his wife replied through gritted teeth, impatient now. "The business has not been struggling as much as we anticipated. We can make it through another year."

They were old money, so Edgar Nott's stress really was unnecessary. Regardless of the impending depression, the Notts would survive sufficiently on a bed of relative luxury. Nevertheless, the economic instability would serve to disadvantage them in one respect—it would feed the ravenous revolutionaries.

* * *

In the weeks preceding the start of Rose Weasley's Fifth Year at Hogwarts, a letter arrived that was heavier than it usually was. With a feeling of deep satisfaction that outweighed any sense of excitement, Rose extracted her prefect badge. She grinned at the shiny piece of metal, and pinned it onto her T-shirt. She admired her refection in the mirror for several minutes before running downstairs to tell her parents.

The Potters were invited over to celebrate the news that both Albus and Rose had gained the position of prefect. Her aunt Ginny insisted that they take photos. A cake was cut and shared. After a while, the children left their parents, who were huddled in the kitchen, so that they could spend some time outside in the gloriously ephemeral sun.

Hermione Granger called it the Weasley bungalow even though it was a bit too big to constitute as a bungalow (it had to cater for the extended family that visited and often overstayed). The backyard was enormous. A tree with a tyre swing sat lonely on the far left. Rose splayed out on the grass, squinting up at the soft blue sky and wax-yellow clouds. Hugo retrieved a Quaffle from the garden shed and began to pass it back and forth with James and Albus. The rhythmic smack of the leather skin added a beat beneath their conversation. Without warning, Albus threw it towards Rose, who caught it quickly. She sat up and pegged it back towards her cousin. They laughed as he failed to catch it. Lily Potter kept her distance, reading beneath the tyre swing tree.

Eventually, it began to grow cool. The sun slipped towards the horizon. The five of them padded their way towards the kitchen, where they could hear the kettle boiling. Their parents had been discussing political matters—it was all they ever seemed to be doing those days—and little of it made sense. An argument was taking place in whispers. Harry's tone was reserved. Hermione's voice was frustrated and low; Rose could hear her mother's muttering before the back door closed.

_If he becomes Minister we'll be living in a police state. _

_He's just preaching a message people want to hear. _

_Well, apparently it's working._

_People are bloody thick, then. I'd rather quit than work for that nutter. _

Rose hesitated in the doorway. Her mother, standing by the kitchen sink, looked up and caught her in a fierce look. Ron snatched up the newspaper and turned it back to its front page, concealing its guts and messy entrails and the words their children weren't supposed to read.

"It was getting chilly," Rose offered in way of an explanation.

"Of course, love. Come in, I'm making us some tea."

But the subject of the conversation was shuffled as easily as a deck of cards. The next topic to be drawn up was the impeding start of term, but the safeness of this subject matter was definitely not a matter of luck. So, still being somewhat sheltered from the qualms of the Magical Community, their children were safe. Rose had nothing to worry about between home and Hogwarts. At least, she felt that way on one of the last summer afternoons before Fifth Year.

No one ever sees a revolution coming until it has already arrived.

A war had been won, yet nothing had really changed. Human nature does not change. Humans want conflict—

Again, my phrasing is wrong.

Humans are not exclusively the ones who want conflict.

* * *

Disclaimer: This is all JK Rowling's. I am penniless and unemployed.


	2. Chapter One

**- CHAPTER ONE -**

The chattering crowd began to surge towards the Hogwarts Express as the hour grew closer to eleven. Cats wove between the legs of students and the scraping of trunks punctured the air. Rose hugged both her parents quickly, wanting to get a good seat in the Prefect's carriage. They had two carriages all to themselves, and she had been boasting about it on the drive over. Hugo was not impressed.

"Make sure you write us," her mum persisted, but Rose was already collecting her birdcage and waving them off.

"I will, I will," she promised over her shoulder.

As she began to push towards the train, she spotted Albus in the throng. He was hardly inconspicuous, with his mop of black hair sticking up in every direction. She shoved her way over to him.

"Did you hear?" she asked, by way of greeting him.

Albus glanced at her. His green eyes gave away his apprehension. "What? About the riots?"

Rose shook her head. She had not been in the least bit interested in Goblin strikes and ministry protests. It was always the same article, and the same threats issued. Her concerns were relatively normal for the average fifteen year old. "Lucy Bird broke up with David Wolten."

Albus sighed heavily. He had hoped Rose had forgotten the wager.

It just happened that Lucy Bird was passing by, surrounded by a gaggle of fifth-year girls. It was true after all; no boyfriend in sight. Rose held out her hand, almost reflexively. Albus sheepishly dug around in his pockets for the coins he owed. Their brood had been raised on a steady diet of betting. It was as integrated into their childhood as bedtime stories and tea parties. When Rose was younger, her family used to bet on who would lose their teeth first. Perhaps it had been wrong to encourage the vice—but nothing was better than a little bit of a flutter.

The two cousins exchanged the money easily. To an outsider's eye, not even a glint of gold would have been seen.

"I really thought they would last the summer," Albus said regretfully. He was not so concerned over their teenage heartbreak as he was about the eight sickles he had just lost.

"Are you going to do it now?" Rose asked, nudging Albus in the ribs.

"Are you mental? There's no way I'm speaking to her with all those girls around."

They had, thankfully, boarded the train by that stage and the prospect had passed for the time being.

"You're going to have to speak to her eventually. It was a part of the deal," Rose replied.

Betting was unique within their family. Passing money back and forth had lost its entertainment value, not to mention that money isn't worth much when you're a child. There's only so much you can spend on sweets. So, the bets had mutated in nature, gaining a flamboyancy that marked them as a part of the Weasley-Potter brood. There was a dare involved for the loser. For this particular bet, one of the conditions of losing was asking Lucy out.

Albus sighed, shoving his hands into his now emptied pockets. Rose told him to cheer up, and elbowed him when he didn't. "You're a prefect. If she doesn't want to go out with you, give her a detention."

He raised his eyebrows. "Only a Slytherin would think like that."

She rolled her eyes at the jibe.

There had been a whole series of bets on who would get prefect, although Rose and Albus had been favourites. Even their uncle George had put a Galleon on his niece and nephew. Perhaps it would have been insulting to do anything less. They, of course, had placed bets also.

"Who else got a position?"

"Imogen Abercrombie from Gryffindor. I was writing to her over the summer."

"Aren't you _brave_," Rose replied mockingly. She dug around in her pockets to get out some sickles. She never would have betted on Imogen Abercrombie. The girl could scare a bogart. This was likely the reason that she was chosen. "We both betted on Nathan Corner. I wonder if he got it?"

With trepidation, the two students paused outside of the Prefect's carriage. Rose rubbed her sweaty palms on her robes. The betting had been in jest, yet she was beginning to wonder how many she had picked right. The nerves stemmed from more than just the coins in their pockets. Albus opened the compartment door.

Mary Boot and Nathan Corner (just as expected).

Imogen Abercrombie.

Naomi Bones. Caleb Macmillan.

One was missing. Rose shut the door behind her.

They busied themselves with stacking their trunks away. Rose was trying to heave hers onto the racks over the seats when Caleb Macmillan jumped up.

"Oh, let me give you a hand, that looks awfully heavy."

Considering that Rose appeared to be more muscular than the helpful Hufflepuff in question, she found this terribly amusing. "No, it's fine," she reassured him, attempting to balance the trunk on her own. Still, he wouldn't let go of the other end. She was forced to concede and allowed him to help lift the trunk. The racket he caused was such a nuisance that Mary Boot looked up from her book, sending them both an irate stare.

Funnily enough, Macmillan didn't offer to help Albus with his trunk.

"I'm glad you've been made prefect!" he said to Rose affably, dusting his hands. "We were hoping it would be you. Wasn't I just saying that?" he said, turning to look at Naomi Bones, who only nodded placidly. "You had all the credentials for the position, really."

Albus rolled his eyes subtly and made the effort to settle beside his partner, Imogen Abercrombie. She was staring at the Hufflepuffs as if she wanted to wring their necks.

Macmillan gabbled on as they took their seats. He was pompously talking up his very short list of achievements. It didn't take long for Rose to notice his habit of rolling his eyes as he spoke, as if he was exasperated by his own portentousness. Naomi Bones smiled mildly at everything being said.

"Would you mind keeping it down?" Mary Boot snapped, glancing up from her corner. She sat by the window, her head tucked into an arithmacy book. She required absolute silence when she read. When it became evident that Caleb was not a discreet whisperer, she sighed heavily and cast a charm to block out the chatter. Rose was quite envious, wishing she could do the same. She nodded tiredly along to Caleb's incessant talk.

A shrill whistle sounded from outside. Everyone glanced out of the windows, watching as the platform began to melt away. They caught the crowd just before they disappeared around a corner, watching arms wave goodbye, but Rose could no longer spot her parents. It didn't take long for the train to pick up momentum. Nathan Corner checked his watch. "Right on time," he said. He caught Rose's eye and smile. She found herself blushing a little. He was tall and handsome and Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. She would have much preferred to be seated beside him, and not Macmillan.

After a few more minutes, the Head Boy and Head Girl entered. Everyone sat up straighter. Even Mary marked her book and placed it aside. Their superiors introduced themselves—Alastair Bristol and Rebecca Burzinski. The introduction was not really necessary, as both students had been well known at Hogwarts even prior to receiving the position. Rebecca was practically a part of every extracurricular activity available. They began on a small congratulations speech that seemed partly memorised, discussing the solemnity of their responsibilities as prefects.

"We're missing one," Albus murmured to Rose.

His tone was implicit. Rose knew exactly who he had placed his money on, and it was for more than the sake of their betting that she was praying he was wrong. As the minutes passed at an agonising pace, Rose reassured herself that it would not be Scorpius Malfoy—for one thing, he was always absurdly punctual, and the fact he wasn't yet present seemed to suggest Rose was in favour. It would be very out of character for him to appear late, especially to an official meeting. Perhaps another boy in her House received the position.

Realistically, a quick mental innovatory of the other Slytherin students made it clear that there was no other clear cut student prepared for the job. The odds were not in her favour.

So, when the screen slid open, Rose was not surprised to catch sight of his silver-blonde head and pale complexion. She was, however, disheartened.

Scorpius Malfoy snapped the screen door shut behind him. He apologised for being late, but his otherwise taciturn expression remained the same as ever.

"That's quite alright, mate. Take a seat," Alistair offered warmly. Scorpius did not return the smile, nor the kind sentiments.

The Head Girl launched into an explanation about leading the first-years to their prospective common rooms. Once she finished explaining the list of initial duties, slips of parchment including each House's prospective common room passwords were handed out. Rose began to memorise hers. Alistair added that the first duty to be performed was for the prefect's patrol of the train corridors. Snapping to attention, Rose regained some of her usual bravado. She raised her hand quicker than lightning. "Malfoy and I can go first."

"Excellent," Rebecca replied. "Rose, isn't is?"

Rose beamed and nodded.

"How about we have Hufflepuff next, then Ravenclaw and then Gryffindor."

Rose sat back smugly, as if she had won a competition by being the first to volunteer. Albus rolled his eyes. "Keen to talk to Malfoy, I see?"

She stomped on his foot, worried the boy would overhear.

It is best to describe Scorpius Malfoy now, before you build him up in your mind as some menacing foe Rose had to deal with.

He was of average height, Caucasian, blonde and male. Most distinctively, he was awkward. Just being around him would unnerve you. He seemed to miss social cues, which made him appear rude. Or perhaps he really was just rude. Rose smiled towards him uncertainly. He ignored her, refusing to make eye-contact.

Anyone but him and Rose would have withheld complaint. She would even have settled with Toby Fleischer. It wasn't that she despised Malfoy—she had just never found any common ground with him. He was very good at all the subjects Rose struggled with, and this never ceased to bother her. Above all, he kept to himself. He was reclusive and aloof and hard to talk to. Rose and Scorpius were very different people. They shared very little in common other than a desire to beat the other. Malfoy was a quiet achiever. Rose was the very opposite.

Working with him would be difficult.

They were the first to be dismissed. Rose walked briskly out of the compartment. Scorpius followed behind her.

They paced the corridors for the designated period. It was a tense hour. Whatever Rose was expecting, she had certainly not expected absolute silence. Not a word was exchanged. Not even when they ducked into compartments to check who was playing exploding snap. Scorpius walked with his hands buried in his pockets, as if his fingers were shy. He would swallow audibly. He hardly looked towards her.

She tried a few times. She mentioned how overcast it looked (he glanced outside a window and nodded) and how much she was looking forward to the banquet (he raised his eyebrows condescendingly). Eventually, Rose gave up on breaching the dangerous borders of small talk. He had certainly given the impression he was a dour agelast. By the end of the shift she felt resigned. "I guess I'll see you later."

He nodded in reply, and turned to make his way back towards his own compartment.

"What an arse," Rose muttered, already feeling annoyed.

She had the option of returning to the Prefect's carriage but was not enthralled by the idea of sitting beside a prattling Caleb Macmillan. Instead, Rose made her way through the train in search of some familiar faces. It hadn't been long at all when she heard Alice Lim's catcalls up the corridor.

"You don't reckon I can do it?" she was saying, in her usual jeering voice.

Alice Lim was shoving pieces of chocolate into a birdcage. She had a habit of trying to do this to Rose's owl, Volker, before he could bite her fingers. Today it was Lorcan Scamander's bird she was pestering. Indeed, the vicious barn owl was trying to nip at her thumb, screeching horribly. The boys were all egging her on, having forgotten for the moment about trading their Chocolate Frog cards.

Alice Lim and Rose Weasley shared very little other than a room and a sense of humour, but they had gotten along from the start. A bond developed based upon a mutual need—they both needed to live in an environment where a decent conversation could transpire. Slytherin would be a duller place without such a friend.

As Rose entered the train compartment, Alice lost interest in the owl.

"Alright, Rose?" she said affectionately.

"Move over, Lim," she replied, falling into the empty seat. She was already feeling wary.

The compartment was filled with a variety of their other classmates. Lysander and Lorcan Scamander had resumed trading Chocolate Frog cards with Angus Finnigan. All were familiar faces, featuring in childhood birthdays and family functions.

"Apparently," Alice drawled. "Malfoy and you are coupling up."

"Merlin, kill me now," Rose grunted.

"You can't possibly mean that," Lysander replied, sucking on the end of a Chocolate Frog.

Years of experience had taught Rose how to tell the Scamander twins apart. They were both in their Sixth Year, and they were only separated by a few minutes, but that is where the similarities ended. Lysander was weedier, with a longer nose. He had a permanently dreamy quality to his wide wonderstruck eyes. His younger brother, on the other hand, had a stocky build, broader shoulders and less height. Most notably, he had an agitated expression. "Malfoy, that _wanker_?" Lorcan demanded.

"Mind your language," Lysander chastised.

Lorcan ignored him. "Good luck, Rosie. I bet by week two you would've drowned yourself in the lake."

It's strange that despite being twins, Lysander and Lorcan were both so different. Different enough that they were in separate houses. Rose studied them both, bemused. Most girls fancied Lorcan over Lysander, as he was the golden Gryffindor boy. Rose had always preferred Lysander's company though, if only because he was more brain than brawns.

"I reckon you're taking it better than he would," Lorcan offered. "I can't imagine his father will be very pleased either."

To a point, Lorcan Scamander was right. Rose was taking the news much more graciously than Malfoy was, although she didn't know it.

Scorpius Malfoy had returned to his own friends by that point. Isabella Nott and André Zabini were dividing up their sweets from the trolley when Scorpius arrived. Upon seeing his expression, Isabella offered him a sugar quill without having to be asked.

"So, it was Weasley?" Zabini queried, as a passive way to rub it in.

Scorpius nodded in response, falling into a seat and sucking on the end of the sugar quill. It had begun to rain, which only added to his brooding. He watched the drizzle spatter the window.

"You know, she's not that awful." Isabella turned to Zabini as if expecting support. When none was offered, she ploughed on. "I've lived with her since first year. She's really very friendly. And she's not lazy either."

Scorpius directed his grey eyes towards her. "She's insufferable."

"She thinks the same of you," Isabella said under her breath.

"I refuse to work with someone so…so exhibitionistic," he said coldly. "You should've seen the way in which she volunteered to patrol."

He bit into the end of the Sugar Quill savagely.

They decided not to broach the subject again.

* * *

The rain was coming down hard when they arrived at Hogsmeade. This caused the usual rush to find carriages to become much more frantic. Girls squealed, quickly pulling their robes over their hair. The low brontide seemed to give the storm more ominous origins, so Rose and her company scampered for the nearest carriage without even having to consult one another.

Never had Rose been gladder to reach the enormous mahogany doorway of Hogwarts. As they surged into the entrance hall beyond, the students began to dawdle. Several took out their wands to dry their robes. Out of the wet and cold climate, the atmosphere began to cheer.

Alice linked her arm through Rose's and together they entered the Great Hall. Hundreds of candles bobbed above their heads, suspended beneath the illusion of a stormy night sky. They chose their seats at the Slytherin table and settled in for the formalities. Alice looked longingly up the table, regarding the empty golden plates and goblets with a look of enmity. "I'm starving," she complained. "If only they would hurry up with the Sorting."

The Sorting Hat was perched upon its stool, bedraggled and limp. It was so patch-worked and burnt that it was a wonder it had yet to fall apart.

Professor Longbottom led the trail of trembling first-years to the front of the hall. The Sorting was always made grand in that it was anticipated by all. Unless you knew someone who was being sorted, the entire experience was actually very tedious. The only thing to look forward to was the Sorting Hat's song.

It began with a flourish, as a tear in the Hat's brim widened to form its words.

_"I may not seem fashionable,_

_Or suit the current trends,_

_But no other hat in the land_

_can tell between foes and friends._

_Soon you will begin your classes,_

_And learn about those who fought._

_But year after year passes,_

_And still no lessons are taught._

_So, listen closely! _

_And mark me here._

_When strife befalls you,_

_You must not fear._

_Remember Slytherin and Gryffindor,_

_What a bond they once did share!  
And Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,_

_There was never a closer pair._

_No matter which House you belong,_

_You are four parts of one._

_Where there are many witches and wizards,_

_Many things can be done."_

Rose frowned towards the hat, hardly impressed by what it had to offer. Little attention could be given to the riddle, for the Sorting truly had begun. Professor Longbottom had already called the first name.

A boy walked up, his face as fresh as snow. He sat nervously on the stool, and the Hat was placed over his head. It slipped down, covering his eyes completely.

"RAVENCLAW!" It roared.

For the first time, the rashness of it hit Rose. The Hat had just judged a boy's entire mind, what he valued at the age of eleven, shifted through his unexperienced endeavours, triumphs and failures and very hastily decided he was a Ravenclaw. It happened in less than five seconds.

What if the Hat was wrong?

The thought had not once occurred to Rose since the day of her very own Sorting.

That first first of September, that first train ride, that first glimpse of Hogwarts above the twinkling lake have always been spoilt in Rose's mind due to the experience of her Sorting.

The day begun with many slanderous comments made about Slytherin, and the possibility that Albus would end up there. James did not let up on the teasing. Even with his parent's stern warnings, he continued to work his younger brother up, and soon it had made Rose nervous too. Before she had even arrived at Hogwarts, it was made clear that your house was where you would belong. People with similar values tended to be sorted into the same house. Your bravery, ambition, loyalty or wit would link you and your house mates together. Hermione had teased Ron on the car ride to the station, telling him to prepare for his little Rose to be a Ravenclaw, to which he let out a string of favoured profanities. Despite it all being in jest, these playful comments only accumulated her anxiety. Both Albus and Rose were worried, but once they were lining up outside the Great Hall with Professor Longbottom telling them not to be so noisy, she realised everyonewas worried.

Albus was placed in Gryffindor with little to no hesitation. The relief on his face somewhat placated Rose.

Before the hat came down on her head, before her hopes shattered, Rose had sought out James Potter's excited, freckled face, because Albus was too short to see. She was waiting for him to burst into a wide grin. She was waiting for the table's cheers when Gryffindor was called.

But the cheers came from a different part of the room. And James' face looked horrified. Never had Rose seen her cousin more shocked. She made her way towards the Slytherin table as "Wolten, David," was called up to be sorted into Hufflepuff. Her father's exact words, teasing but true, came back to her from earlier that day, on platform nine and three-quarters. _"If you're not in Gryffindor, we'll disinherit you. But no pressure."_

Slytherin—cunning, devious, evil. That's what she knew Slytherin as, and she knew that even at the age of eleven. There was stigma there.

The responses from her parent's owls were the worst. Her father was outraged, blaming everyone from Salazar Slytherin to the Sorting Hat. Her mother had written in her letter (which was separate. Rose assumed her father wrote his in secret.) "Never mind that, it's the mark that counts not the crest." Not that it mattered. Because the green snake on her robes was the least of it.

As Rose began to make her way through her third and fourth years, she began to accept that she belonged to the house of the misfits.

Rose was a Slytherin. Her ambition, her cleverness and her self-preservation were some of her defining traits. But, was she like that as a child, or did she just have the potential to be? She couldn't help but wonder if the Sorting begins a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Rose's blue eyes found Scorpius. A once buried memory was exhumed—she remembered something he once said, aged eleven, very lofty. _"Being in Slytherin is in my blood." _He had said it proudly and it sounded like a mantra. Indoctrination. Being in Slytherin wasn't in Rose's blood at all, yet they had ended up there together. They were so different, yet in the very same house. With a posture that was as crooked as a question mark, he sat hunched in his seat between André Zabini and Isabella Nott. His grey eyes followed a girl, her thick hair tied with a yellow bow, as she took her seat at Slytherin. She looked thoroughly confused.

The Sorting was over quickly, and to transition the tradition into the festivities, the food appeared on golden platters to steal everyone's attention. The candles above the student's heads bobbed to the rhythm of the warm conversation below. They ate, they drank and they celebrated the start of a new term. But even as dinner moved on to dessert, Rose couldn't help but ponder and pontificate the Sorting Hat's song.

"What do you think that meant, 'can tell between foes and friends'?" Rose asked as she ate her pudding.

Alice shrugged, thinking it over. "I don't know. It's all about unifying as witches and wizards, isn't it?"

"When strife befalls you…" Rose recalled, letting the words sit in her mouth. She couldn't help but wonder where the Sorting Hat plucked its wisdom from. It seemed obscure to believe it was naturally ingrained with divination powers. More than likely, it heard what was happening in the Headmaster's office and pieced together what was to come. It was not a stupid hat, after all.

Professor Drummond stood to make his speech. Cutlery hit plates. Forks and knives tinkered into inactivity. The bald man in the midnight blue robes had the ability to command a room. "I would like to once again welcome everyone to Hogwarts. I must begin with some announcements. Mr. Duff, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include any muggle electronical devices, including mobile phones, computers and, er, iPods and other such items. Electrical appliances will not function on the grounds. The full list consists of four hundred and ninety six items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Duff's office. I would like to remind you all that the Forest is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to anyone below their third year. Quidditch trials will begin for those teams which feel it is suited. Further notices will be posted in the Common Rooms. Now I suggest you all go off to bed to be rested for the start of the term. Goodnight."

Both Malfoy and Rose stood, almost synchronised. They shepherded the first-years from their table into one group and led them out into the Entrance Hall. The other prefects were steering their groups off towards their prospective common rooms. People pushed and shoved, evidently eager to shower and change into warmer clothes. The two students waited a moment for the chaos to subside before providing introductions. The group of first-years stood before them nervously.

"Welcome to Slytherin," Rose began. Her welcome was either received as sarcastic or menacing, as most of the first-years backed away.

Rose Weasley had never been very good at first impressions. She generally came across as too loud, or too abrupt. She cleared her throat, feeling anxious. "I'm Rose and this is…" She waited for Scorpius to introduce himself but he didn't. Through a clenched jaw, she added, "This is Scorpius. We'll be looking after you."

Again, this didn't seem to reassure the group. Malfoy sighed. Rose responded with a glare, already having grown tired of him. "What? Are you mute?" She demanded in an undertone.

Ironically, there was still no reply.

Rose clasped her hands together to create a sense of finality. "Alright. We'll take you to our common room. It's located in the Dungeons."

"_What?_" a little boy exclaimed, fear in his high voice. "Aren't the dungeons supposed to be haunted?"

It was a perpetuated myth that the Slytherin Dungeons were haunted. Both Rose and Scorpius had once believed it also. The Dungeons never sounded promising to begin with, and Rose was certain that the Bloody Baron wailed purposely on the start of each school year to frighten the first-years. It added to the atmosphere of the house. Scorpius mused for a moment before speaking in a low voice. "The dungeons aren't haunted…anymore."

The terrified eyes of the students swung towards his face.

"So they were?" one girl prompted, the girl with the yellow ribbon.

"Yes. There was once a terrible ghost that lived in the Slytherin Common Room."

"Malfoy," Rose muttered, annoyed.

"It's fine, though," he reassured them all. "Rose scared him off."

A few of them didn't grasp the joke, but one boy laughed appreciatively and offered his tiny hand for a high-five, which Scorpius smugly received. A small part of Rose itched to hit him with a curse, but she ignored the petty jibe. "The dungeons are not haunted. This way, everyone."

They began their descent. The subdued first-years studied the moving paintings and creaking suits of armour as they walked through the castle corridors, issuing sounds of awe. Thunderbolts lit up the corridor in brief shocks. Malfoy ignored Rose completely, coolly staring ahead. It was making her blood boil. She turned to glower at him. "That was not very nice."

"No, I probably shouldn't have scared the children," he replied in his droll tone.

They didn't speak for about a minute as they walked down the hallway. Rose decided she preferred it when he didn't speak, so she was happy to prolong the silence this time. However, after a while, he broke into a dry chuckle. "They all looked at you like you were going to eat them. Except that one kid, he has a sense of humour."

If he was attempting to start a conversation, it wasn't a very good one. "I didn't find it at all amusing."

He shrugged. They walked down a set of stairs, and several of the children commented on the tapestries.

"Perhaps if you weren't so keen to make an impression—" he drawled.

"What do you mean? I was just introducing us."

"If you had just kept your mouth shut, Weasley, they'd probably all be misguided into believing you're somewhat pleasant."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

His eyes fluttered towards her, as if he was genuinely surprised. "Now, now. That isn't the sort of language a prefect should use."

"Right, because you've set a brilliant example. No doubt your daddy just paid off Professor Drummond so you could get the position."

"At least I didn't get here because of my family connections."

The thunder rumbled portentously.

"I'm sorry?" Rose stopped in her tracks, forcing the first-years to grind to a halt. Exasperation had got the better of her.

"Bribing takes some effort," he humoured her. "But I've never been privy to the perks of nepotism."

In a second, Rose had lost her temper, and with it her reason. She had drawn her wand, ten jinxes running through her mind. She wondered how his pointed little face would look covered in boils. Malfoy had always been weak with wandwork, and so he was caught surprised and empty handed. They both heard the shocked, collective gasp of the first-years. He slowly reached up to pinch her right hand, lowering it in the way one handles dangerous beasts. "Now, now. Don't you go setting a bad example."

"You're an arrogant pig," she hissed.

"Calm down, Weasley."

"I'll calm down when you shut up." But she pocketed her wand nonetheless. It was beginning to dawn on her that an audience had been present for her little outburst. The group of First-years stood as still as stone, all agog by the display. The portraits were muttering judgementally. Rose hoped that this incident wouldn't be passed along to the Headmaster.

Scorpius sighed and continued to lead the group. Rose kept quiet.

They arrived at the hidden door and demonstrated how to deliver the password. As the first-years crossed the threshold, exploring the murky darkness beyond, Rose grabbed Scorpius' arm ("Ow, Weasley! Be a lady, please.") and shoved him back into the corridor.

"Whatwas that?" she demanded.

"It was called a threat, you're very adept at delivering them."

"How dare you embarrass me in front of them like that!"

He smirked towards the ceiling, still deeply amused at her expense. He shook his head slightly, as if to himself, and turned towards the hidden door. Rose grabbed his arm roughly, pulling him back around to face her. "How dare you accuse me of nepotism!"

"Drop it, Weasley. I was just trying to push your buttons a bit. Evidently, it worked." He shrugged coolly, wiggling out of her grip. "Next time I suggest you control your temper and take the joke. You just made yourself look foolish."

He delivered the password and left her alone in the corridor.


	3. Chapter Two

**—CHAPTER TWO—**

Being a part of Slytherin House was an experience Rose did not learn to reconcile herself with for several years. There were a lot of ridiculous rituals and rules that dictated the way in which a person was to be treated and the way in which they should behave. Many claimed that these rules were ancient, and practised by Salazar Slytherin himself. Rose believed that was all bollocks, but it was a natural part of growing up as a Slytherin, and no one had any power to question it.

The seventh-years were at the top of the pyramid, and they made up the rules. It is said that absolute power corrupts absolutely. At least the Slytherins were not reluctant to prove this assertion true.

If one were to be shunned for a fortnight for some sort of social faux pas, that was one's punishment and it could not be appealed. If one were to be forced to go a week without showering, one would not dare complain to one's House coordinator. Breaking the rules of the superiors would make a person a social pariah. Ratting them out was unthinkable. The aim of these cruel exercises was purely didactic—they taught respect to the younger years and reminded them of their place within the internal hierarchy of their house. Some said it created a bond between you and your peers. Rose was more of the opinion that it was a terror campaign. Progressing into seniority made life in Slytherin more bearable, as you moved up the social hierarchy, and so that was why all of it was tolerated.

The fifth-year girl's dormitory was made up of five students. Isabella Nott, Sonia Selwyn, Estelle Urquart, Alice Lim and Rose Weasley. They had shared a room since their very first year. The girls used their bathroom-time considerately, which was the main way to achieve harmony in a girl's dorm.

Their continued chatter was a familiar prologue to their sleep. The content of the conversation was inconsequential—Estelle and Sonia discussed everything from their holidays in France to the newest diet potions. Isabella showered while Alice began to pull her belongings out of the trunk. Already, the girls were falling back into routine.

Rose went to bed feeling weary.

Her dreams were tangled, spooling visions that branched from one image to the next. She began at her Sorting, and although she was placed in Slytherin, she wore a Ravenclaw tie. She found herself speaking to the Bloody Baron, asking advice on how to best get Scorpius back for her humiliation. They made a deal where the ghost promised to kill him in the dead of night as long as he can steal back the body and impersonate Malfoy. Before Rose could see the plan actuate, she realised she was back at home. Her thick, brown hair was wet and was being brushed. Her hair was pulled into a braid. She couldn't see who stood behind her, but from the feeling of the gentle fingers, she knew it was her mother. She tried to jerk away, but it was a struggle. Her hair was pulled in the process.

"Rose?"

She walked over to the mirror and saw that her face was missing.

"Rose."

Rose opened her eyes.

It was almost six in the morning. She could feel her pulse in her neck.

Isabella Nott was standing by her bed, wringing her hands.

"It's one of the first year boys. You should see what they've done."

It had been an initiation ritual of some sort. In the aftermath, a boy was left crouched on the floor of the common room, crying, almost completely naked except for his pants. Rose was not sure what it was about seeing a boy in his underpants, but it always made him look tiny. He was scrawny and pale, his spine undulating as he sobbed. Welts covered his back.

Whatever the seventh-years did, it was given an element of mystery and secrecy, so Rose could not be sure why it was the boy had been whipped. She recalled one of the rituals she had heard whispers about in previous years—a ridiculous one that the boys alone had to perform. It involved each child darting forward to grab an object off a table while the older boys wielded whips. It was a test of endurance and daring. Based on the size and shape of the welts, Rose assumed it had been done with wet towels. She and Hugo used to do it to each other all the time as children. Of course, they had lacked the strength of a seventeen year old boy. The first-year wouldn't admit that this was the reason (without a doubt they had been instructed not to say) but Rose had heard of similar injuries in the past.

"I didn't know whether to take him to the hospital wing," Isabella explained but Rose waved her away. Taking him to the hospital wing would be sheer lunacy. It would be impossible to explain away the welts with a feasible excuse, and if the truth surfaced, the entire house would be punished. Rose wasn't going to be put in that position.

"It's fine. Do you have Murtlap Essence by any chance?"

Isabella frowned, indicating that she didn't—or else was unsure what Murtlap Essence was. The prefect was growing impatient.

"Alice probably has some, can you go ask her?"

"Sure," Isabella replied, quickly peeling her way up the stairs of the girl's dormitories.

There really wasn't much else Rose could do in the meantime. She made the boy sit up. He was one of the smaller first-years, and his tinniness just added to his pathetic appearance. It was he who had asked if the Dungeons were haunted. He must have exposed himself as a weakling in front of the seventh-year boys, and been targeted specifically. He rubbed his red nose with a clenched fist. Rose asked him a few more questions that he didn't answer, but it was more or less to distract him. She should have felt sympathetic, but his tears were annoying.

The boys were put through more physically demanding practices, whereas for the girls, the emphasis was on social humiliation. In Rose's third year, they were stripped naked and placed in the order of who had the best body. In the bud of puberty, the experience had been traumatic. Alice had cried for weeks because she had been put last. Whatever the task was, it always happened during the small hours of the day when the darkness could conceal the brutality of it all, usually between one and five in the morning. It was always like a nightmare. Seventh-years—who seemed so much _bigger_ when you were younger—would come barging into a bedroom and demand that everyone wake up. Sometimes, they would fling back the sheets or send sparks out with their wands. Locking the door of the room from the inside was met with extreme punishments. It was always a rude awakening. It taught the younger years to be vigilant, even in sleep. When morning came, no one was allowed to mention what had transpired in the middle of the night. The seventh-years girls acted as if nothing had happened. Even among friends, one would never bring it up. This was possibly due to humiliation or fear.

Generally, what happened between the boys and the girls was never discussed.

Isabella returned with the bottle of Murtlap Essence. Rose smeared it cautiously on the boy's welts. His crying had mostly subsided. She turned to Isabella peevishly and asked where Malfoy was.

"He went to check on the other boys."

Rose nodded, as if she had suspected as much—as if this was all a common procedure that they had agreed upon—and stopped up the bottle.

"You go back to bed, alright? Things will be fine in the morning."

Her reassurances didn't exactly console the boy. He remained as traumatised as ever. Rose turned expectantly to Isabella, who dutifully knelt down beside him.

"It's over now. Scorpius is upstairs with the others so you don't have to worry."

He nodded and returned to his dormitory.

"Anything done to the girls yet?" Rose asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

"Some sort of eating challenge but I wasn't told any details."

"Let me know if anyone gets sick or anything."

Rose was not friends with Isabella. They had slept in the same room for almost five years, had sat beside one another in class and had seen each other naked. But never had Rose made an effort to be her friend. She wasn't sure why that moment felt particularly friendly but she reminded herself that it was the small hours of the day and she could go to sleep and wake up like it had never happened.

* * *

Fifth year always holds great expectations—it was supposed to be the year where magic in the classroom became more practical. It was supposed to be the year where teachers took you more seriously. Rose had prefect privileges to look forward too, perks like the fancy bathrooms and patrols. But by the first week of the first term, she was feeling gutted.

Already, things had been dampened by a disrupted sleep and a crying first-year. Waking up to find that her name had been rostered on for the first prefect petrol did nothing to improve Rose's mood. She turned away from the noticeboard as if it had personally offended her. At breakfast, the students received their timetables. For Rose, Defence Against the Dark Arts was first, and as one of her favourite subjects, she was looking forward to it. But instead of practical work or challenging new theory, the class was given a lecture about how difficult the O.W.L.s would be.

This lecture was repeated in Herbology, and Charms and Potions. It was reiterated at multiple points throughout the day. It was as if the teachers were conspiring against her enthusiasm.

At lunch, Rose sat at the Gryffindor table in order to compare her timetable with Albus' and check which subjects they shared. It wasn't unusual for her to flit between different house tables during meals. Initially, Slytherin had not approved. The first time Rose did it—a few weeks into her first year—punishment came in the form of public humiliation. With her hands tied behind her back, she was forced to eat food off the common room floor. Despite the resulting dissuasion, Rose eventually began to sit with her family again and the seventh-years began to ignore it, having grown bored of her. It wasn't so much an issue anymore.

Rose slipped into a seat beside Albus, swiftly swapping timetables. Before she could comment on which classes he was obliged to save her a seat in, James leaned across the table. "I heard about you and Malfoy."

"What about me and Mafloy?"

"When you were leading the first years down to the dungeons, you hit him with a toenail-growing hex." His grin was wide, almost congratulatory.

"Who told you that?"

He shrugged. "A first-year. How come you hexed him?"

"I _didn't_. And trust me, if I did, it would have been something a lot more painful than a toenail-growing hex."

Albus lowered the scrap of parchment in his hand to aim a disapproving look in her direction. Rose knew what he was thinking before he even said it. You should have been the bigger person; you should have set the example; you should have acted more maturely. Any of the three would have fit his expression perfectly. Rose raised her hand to stop him. She had already had her fill of depressing lectures that day.

"So, did you speak to Lucy last night?"

He cringed, and she already had her answer.

"You'll have to ask her eventually," Rose said.

Albus placed his knife and fork down in order to address his cousin imploringly. "I was trying and failing miserably to chat her up in the common room last night but there is no way to ask her out considering Hogsmeade dates haven't been distributed yet—"

"You don't _have _to take her to Hogsmeade. Just do something on the grounds—"

"Well, that's what I _wanted _to do, but then I couldn't think of anything because I have no idea what her interests are so I was just floundering—"

"Cut to the chase Albus, my lunch is getting cold."

"I'm organising a friendly Quidditch match this Friday as an excuse to invite her to something."

It wasn't a stellar idea. For one, Quidditch can't be played with two people. When Rose voiced this main concern, Albus went on with his qualm.

"I told her I had already organised it, and a bunch of my friends were coming."

"This doesn't count as a date. A date must be one on one. Not surrounded by your mates and a Quaffle."

"I was desperate! I needed to warm her up first."

Rose went on eating her soup, clearly unmoved.

"I need you to be there as one of my cool friends to play a friendly game of Quidditch with me to impress a girl I fancy."

She would've refused, but her ego wouldn't allow it—she was flattered by the epithet cool. "We need to get as many people involved as possible," she replied.

"Finnigan said he'd play. Damien Lee said he might. Lorcan's certain. James is refusing, but I'm still trying to convince him. You can invite whoever you want."

"Have you booked the pitch?"

"I'm going to do that once classes are done."

"Merlin, Albus. You always over-complicate things."

They needed fourteen people, which was no small feat. Prefect meetings fell on Wednesdays, so Albus had the opportunity to invite the other prefects then. Nathan Corner was the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and ridiculously competitive, so he would be happy to participate, as would Macmillan. Rose was sure they would both agree.

Albus looked up from his plate, his expression timid. "You can invite Malfoy if you like."

"You must be mental."

"There's no harm in a peace offering."

That was all he had said, but he had said enough. James had been pleased by Rose's roguish escapade, whereas Albus' disapproval was like a slap to the face. She now had a guilty conscience to contend with.

* * *

Meanwhile, Malfoy was equally unenthused about the course of his day. He had spent most of the early morning consoling the youngest boys in his house, laying cold towels on their welts. He has struggled to explain why it was that they were dragged out of their beds, stripped to their underwear and put through a brutal activity on their very first night at Hogwarts. In the end, his feeble words — things will gets better — had to suffice.

It brought back, with frightening clarity, his very first encounter with the seventh-years. Doors burst open and the wandlight was blinding. Boys were dragged from their beds by their hair. He cried that first night. He was unable to comprehend the reasons for which his father had boasted about Slytherin, about the sort of man it would make him. He learned it was best not to speak, unless spoken to. He learned to hide his fear. That is what Slytherin had taught him.

He stayed up with the boys while they settled back down on their beds. In order to lighten the mood, he told a few cruel stories about his new prefect partner. "This one time, Weasley was forced to eat off the floor. We all got to watch…" It certainly made the boys feel better about their own experience, which at least, had not been witnessed.

The day did not improved when he noticed he was scheduled to patrol with Rose that evening. His stomach turned. It was almost enough to rue being prefect.

Following this were his classes. Even in Herbology, his favourite subject, Professor Longbottom confronted them with a lecture. His anxiety mounted as he imagined all the work to be done for their exams, and how he could possibly survive them. There were portentous feelings surrounding the O.W.L.s. and he couldn't help but grow anxious when he gave them any thought.

Once lessons were over for the day and he had returned to the common room, Scorpius checked on the first-year boys, asking discreetly about their backs. Most of them were beginning to respect him. It wasn't very difficult to gain the trust of an eleven year old.

* * *

Out of all the Potters, Lily and Rose got along the least.

Lily Potter was a complete control freak. It began from a very young age, where she would have to set up her tea parties so-and-so and all imaginary tea had to have a precise amount of imaginary sugar cubes dropped into it. She never coloured outside of the lines and she refused to get involved in snowball fights. She didn't like hypotheticals or open-answer questions. If there wasn't a good reason, then there wasn't a point. These habits continued into her early adolescence.

Thus, it was with regret and a heavy sense of obligation that Rose agreed to go over her Arithmacy homework that afternoon.

Lily greeted her in the usual, polite fashion. Her quill sat neatly beside her empty piece of parchment, her books stacked by subject.

"How was your first day of third year?" Rose asked.

"It was good. Simon Finnigan accidentally turned Professor Tate's feather boa into a snake. It was hilarious."

Rose was not sure why meeting with Lily to help her with Arithmancy was necessary, as she herself was never terribly good at the subject. She supposed she could offer Lily more help than her older brothers could.

"We started on Wenlock's magical properties of the number seven. I just don't understand how each property is _linked_."

"How about we make a table?" Rose suggested.

"Yes! A table, right. That's perfect."

Rose realised very quickly that Lily was a table tyrant. After she failed to draw one up to her liking, Lily whipped the parchment from her cousin's hands to measure up identical rows.

Rose personally preferred mind maps.

Nevertheless, the table helped explain the theory. In fact, Lily picked it up easily. In subjects that required a formula, she had always excelled. Trying to picture her in a lesson of Divination was comical. It only took Rose thirty minutes to finish up with her, but by the end of it her patience was running thin.

"So," Lily said, packing her books away. "I heard that you punched Malfoy in the face."

"_What?_" Rose gaped at her incredulously. "Honestly, I just...had a bit of a tiff with him."

"Well, that's not what Hugo heard."

She had to reassure Lily that it was the truth, realising she had given several people the impression she needed to participate in an anger management course. Mentioning Malfoy did prove profitable, as it reminded Rose of her impending patrol. _Make sure you don't forget_, she told herself.

But before Rose packed up her own books to return to the common room, she noticed Lucy Bird searching for a book. Inspired by the sight of her, Rose dropped her quill and scraped back her chair, the bet with Albus on her mind.

Lucy had disappeared down the third aisle, so Rose went the long way around to approach from the opposite direction. As naturally as she could, she examined the shelves as she passed. Lucy was engrossed in the index of a heavy volume, oblivious to the apparent espionage. Rose picked a random book off the shelf and opened it, loudly saying "Aha!" Such exemplary acting had the desired effect; Lucy looked over. She smiled at Rose politely, and seemed to have every intention of turning her thoughts back to her book. Rose didn't give her the chance.

"Oh, Lucy! How have you been?"

"Er, really well, Rose. Thanks." She paused. "How about yourself?"

"Yes, quite well. Just looking for—" her blue eyes darted to the front page of the book. It was about the sexual eugenics of the wizarding world. She immediately wanted to return it to its shelf. "—a book. For an assignment."

"Yeah, same."

Lucy inched away from her. No doubt, she had also heard that Rose had knocked out her prefect partner.

"I heard David broke up with you," she blurted out. There was a long, awkward pause. Subtly was never one of Rose's strengths.

Lucy presented a very forced smile. "Yes. Well, actually, I broke up with him."

"Any particular reason?" Rose was hoping to hint towards Albus. Lucy shifted on the spot, as if she was preparing to run.

"Erm, no. We just had our differences."

"Oh, well. Everything happens for a reason."

"I think so, too." She said this in a very final way, as if she was attempting to end the conversation.

"I mean, maybe you'll realise you have feelings for someone else."

"Yes, maybe...Er, well, I better go. Take care, Rose."

Once Lucy had scurried away, Rose took the liberty of thumping her head against _Sexual Eugenics of Warlocks, Wizards and Muggles_ before returning it to its place. She had probably worsened Albus' chances after the encounter.

By that stage of the day, Rose had come to the realisation that her expectations for fifth year needed to be somewhat lowered. She was in a deeply sour mood. The late afternoon was wasted on homework, and despite working diligently, she did not get nearly enough of it done. By the end of the week, she would be swamped. She had been planning to finish her Charms notes after dinner, but just as she was close to finishing a summary on the first chapter of her textbook, a shadow fell over her. She glanced up and was surprised to see Malfoy.

"Yes?" she asked currishly.

"We have to patrol," he replied.

"Oh. Sorry, I forgot."

The words tasted like vinegar. She wish she had an excuse, but there was nothing to offer.

Malfoy didn't seem impressed.

As they walked down to the prefect's office, she internally berated herself for having not met him as previously decided. She hated that she needed to be chased up. They signed their names into the roster and then left to begin checking the corridors. It was the longest fifty minutes of Rose's life. They didn't speak for the duration of the watch. Not one word. Rose couldn't stand the silence. Malfoy was stony, occasionally walking ahead of her. Nothing exciting happened—they didn't even stumble across Peeves. When they returned to the office to sign out, more than anything, Rose felt relieved.

It was only as she turned to walk away did Malfoy speak.

"Do you mind if we have a quick word?"

Rose wasn't sure what was more shocking—that he had said something or that he had felt the need to ask permission to say something. She didn't reply, but turned slowly to face him once more. He seemed completely unimpressed, and she felt exactly the same.

"I can't do Tuesdays for prefect patrols," Malfoy said.

"Why not?"

"I'm Quidditch captain. We've always run our practices on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, and Saturday mornings."

Rose grunted in frustration. "Can't you movenights?"

"It means rearranging _everybody else's_ training arrangements. Unless you believe any one of the other Houses would happily accommodate Slytherin, be my guest."

She shook her head. No one would move for Slytherin. It wasn't just unlikely, it was impossible. "What should we do?"

"Tryouts should be next week so it's fine for now. If you could ask Boot and Corner to switch patrols with us, that would be great."

"Why can't _you _ask them?"

He shifted his weight and dropped his eyes. "They won't agree if I ask."

"What, do they have the good sense to hate you too?"

Her vehemence was unwarranted, but she couldn't seem to rein it in. The comment had hit a nerve though, because Malfoy crossed his arms and seemed to change from aloof to irate. He had yet to snap back. Rose realised she wanted him to. She wanted him to get angry at her. She wanted to push _his _buttons.

He just seemed to retract further into himself, become colder, more clinical.

Unlike Rose, Malfoy internalised his anger. Insults did not upset him. Clearly, the cold shoulder was ineffectual. He was too even-tempted. Such a pity, Rose thought, for she would not have the opportunity to humiliate him. No one was even around to play audience if she could. There was no way she could extract her revenge for the previous night.

He cleared his throat. "We need a degree of civility if we're going to function as a unit. You have to get past whatever problems you have with me."

"Don't expect me to suddenly be your friend—"

"Come on, Weasley. You've made it clear for the past couple of years that we aren't friends. I'm not looking for a friendship. I'm looking for free Tuesday nights so I can get to Quidditch practice on time. Agreed?"

He had perfected the art of staring straight at someone without making eye contact. Rose nodded mutely and he moved aside, letting her pass. Considering that they were attempting civility, they parted without any civil terms. The night should have begun with an apology and ended with a handshake. Instead, Rose was waging a Cold War.

* * *

In the larger Wizarding world, an actual Cold War was being waged.

So far, the hostilities consisted of threats, propaganda, and other measures just short of open warfare, creating the current state of affairs.

If you were to walk along any street populated by Wizards and Witches, you would likely find shop fronts and walls plastered with posters convincing the public of the evils of goblins. Some posters posed rhetorical questions—_Do you want a third Goblin Rebellion? _Others portrayed gruesome caricatures of Hodrod the Horny-Handed squeezing the life out of three pale wizards.

On the other hand, if you were to enter Goblin territory, you would find similar propaganda on every hard surface. The sheets of paper appealed to a goblin's sense of patriotism—_'Avenge Ragnuk the First!_' It did not take much to convince the long-fingered creatures. The plethora of posters tapped into archaic sentiments of inferiority. For women, who were strictly kept to a life of domesticity, propaganda attempted to ignite their passions—_Would you like your young son enslaved?_ Tensions were running high.

Threats had started to arrive at the Ministry. If goblins were not included in wand legislature, they would strike. When the Gringotts strike did not prove effective, they instead threatened to shut down the bank altogether. The Ministry insisted they did not have the power to do this, as the Wizarding government owned the bank. However, the goblins insisted that the bank truly belonged to them, as Gringott, a man of their own breed, founded it. Every time the Minister suggested that he and the goblin king come to a compromise, riots broke out. Young groups of wizards supported the goblins, acting against the ministry, sometimes defacing their property or ambushing government colleagues.

The situation was growing more volatile as the days passed.

Hogwarts students really had no idea.

* * *

There was an entire world that existed within Slytherin, and that was enough to preoccupy Rose. She never expected her role as a prefect to entrench her so thoroughly in this world. Rose was constantly harassed by the younger girls in her house who wanted to know about Hogsmede dates and laundry hours and when lights off really means lights off.

The first ever prefect meeting was tedious.

On Wednesday afternoon, right after classes were finished, they met with the Head Boy and Head Girl. They discussed the upcoming week, provided information on the prefect's bathroom and then outlined the responsibilities of a prefect for the newest instalment of fifth-years. This included everything from issuing detentions to creating rosters. Following the twenty minute tirade was a ten minute wave of ridiculous protests. When the debate over when to take away house points concluded, another row about the strictness of uniform policy erupted. Rose quickly grew tired of it. There was nothing particularly difficult about patrols. She and Malfoy had patrolled the night before, and nothing exceptional had happened. Macmillan was just making a fuss over nothing.

When the meeting was adjourned, the group dispersed into the hallway. Rose approached Mary Boot as she was collecting her books. As Rose began to greet her, the Ravenclaw turned and left the other girl mid-conversation.

Rose was stunned. She was generally a likable person, and even when people didn't like her, she still received common courtesy. After gathering her wits, she went after Nathan Corner instead, who was still arguing with Macmillan in the corridor.

"Hi boys, sorry to interrupt. Nathan, could I have a quick word?"

He raised his eyebrows in a pleasantly surprised way, and Rose was relieved that she would not be shunned for a second time. He waved off Caleb, who cast anxious looks over his shoulder, as if he was afraid he was missing something of the utmost importance.

"Alright Rose?"

"Yeah, thanks. I was just wondering if you and Mary could swap patrol days with me."

"Not a problem. Anything else?"

He seemed to ask this hopefully, and she wasn't sure what he was expecting. Just as she was questioning his motives, something did come to mind. "Yes, actually! Albus and I are throwing together a friendly Quidditch match this Friday. Would you care to join us?"

He seemed genuinely impressed by the invitation, as if his presence was being requested at a gala ball. He nodded smugly before expressing his gratitude.

They parted on a good note, so Rose wasn't dwelling on Mary's cold shoulder or the fact prefect meetings had been a bore. She entered the Common Room with high spirits. It didn't take long to spot Malfoy chatting to Andrè Zabini. Rose motioned him over. The thin, blond boy seemed surprised by the voluntary interaction.

"I got Nathan to swap his patrol with us. So, from next week onwards we'll be patrolling on Monday," she told him excitedly.

"Excellent."

They both stood there. Malfoy's hands were tucked timidly into his pockets. If there was any time to attempt reconciliation, it was now. So, Rose took a deep breath. "Albus and I are organising a Quidditch match this Friday for fun. Would you like to play?"

He looked up sharply, his expression a cross between disbelief and aversion. "There is nowhere I'd rather be less."

Rose wasn't given the chance to process his blunt response, or come up with a retort. He just left her standing there. She had been accommodating and she had done his dirty work. He hadn't even said thank you.

Screw reconciliations.


	4. Chapter Three

**—CHAPTER THREE—**

Rose was running late but this was no surprise. She had arrived to an almost deserted Great Hall; everyone had already finished their breakfast and all the post owls had come and gone. She had overslept, and only had ten minutes to get to class. Despite this, she was thoroughly devoted to her breakfast, buttering a crumpet tenderly, and taking her sweet time. Food and sleep were clearly high priorities.

James traipsed towards her. He had a permanently jumpy quality about him, as if he couldn't stop his muscles from twitching with excitement, even with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his robes. "Enjoying yourself?" he grinned.

Rose sunk her teeth into the warm crumpet and moaned happily in response.

"You realise class starts in about seven minutes."

She shrugged and swallowed. "Professor Tate never minds when I show up late."

James let out a jerky laugh and leaned against the Slytherin table. "You won't survive your OWL year with that attitude, not if you want to pass your exams."

"Come off it," Rose replied scathingly. "I've always breezed through my subjects."

This was more or less true. With the exception of Potions, Rose had never struggled to maintain a high average across all her classes. She could put in minimal effort and receive top results.

"Well, you won't in fifth-year. Tons of people freak out with the workload. I remember Rowan Finnigan breaking into hives."

Rose took a dubious bite of her toast. "_You_ didn't stress about your OWLs last year."

James snorted with laughter and began to tap his fingers along the table's surface. "That's because I hardly scraped by. I only came back to school this year for the Quidditch."

The year prior, Gryffindor had lost their final match to Ravenclaw, costing them the House Cup. It had been Nathan Corner's first stint as captain, and his tactics had outstripped Gryffindor in every one of their matches. Ravenclaw was the team to beat—Lorcan had spent most of the summer over at the Potter's house, discussing strategy with James and hassling the others to practice Quidditch with them.

Already, the competition was growing. Their 'friendly' Friday match had only added fuel to the fire. People were taking it much more seriously than Albus had originally intended. Lorcan made it clear that this was some sort of grudge match against Nathan Corner. People were getting snarky, and this wasn't even counting for house points.

"You'll be playing, won't you?" James confirmed as Rose finished off her orange juice. She nodded vaguely. "Well, I was thinking," he went on in a rush. "We could probably use a ref. It'll make the game fair and make sure we're scoring properly."

She rolled her eyes and stood up, scooping up her bag. "It's supposed to be a friendly game, James."

"Yeah, but can't you just—ask one of your mates or—"

"See you later."

Rose slipped into transfiguration just as a box of snails was being handed around. Professor Tate looked up from her desk and scowled slightly. "Miss Weasley, I expect you to arrive on time to class in future."

"Sorry Professor," she replied flippantly, slipping into the nearest empty seat, beside a boy named Toby Fleischer. He thrust the box of snails towards her and she quickly plucked one out before handing it on.

The Transfiguration lesson was spent practicing Vanishing Spells, and to Rose's irritation, the spell did not come very naturally to her. The first few attempts failed completely. She felt somewhat like an embarrassment, as she once again waved her wand over the hard brown shell of the garden snail on her table. She was highly conscious of Fleischer on her right, watching her as she struggled. As an invertebrate, she had expected the magic to be much easier. On her sixth attempt, she did manage to vanish the snail, although a fragment of the shell remained behind. She placed it back into the box that was handed around at the end of class. Professor Tate gave them a twelve-inch essay on the differences between Vanishing animate and inanimate objects.

Rose caught up with Alice so they could walk to Potions together. Rose listened silently for several minutes as Alice complained about her hatred for snails until she finally plucked up the courage to ask, "Would you do me a favour?"

"Depends," Alice replied shortly. "Does it involve snails?"

They had reached the dungeons and began to file into Professor Turpins' classroom. "No. James and Lorcan want a ref for that Quidditch match we're doing."

Alice huffed in frustration, and began to haul out her cauldron. They settled down on desks at the back of the room—Potions was one of Rose's least favourite subjects, and she wished to draw as little attention to herself as possible. They didn't have the chance to continue their conversation, as Professor Turpins swept into the room at that moment. They were to begin on the Draught of Peace, and when the instructions appeared on the chalkboard, Rose's stomach seemed to drop to her feet.

"Don't bloody deny it," Alice said as she collected ingredient from the storeroom cupboard. "This whole Quidditch game is becoming a fiasco."

Soon, the classroom was heated by simmering cauldrons, each attended by a frantic student. The potion was extraordinarily fiddley. Isabella Nott spent the first half of the lesson prodding the flames under her cauldron, attempting to get them at precisely the right temperature. Professor Turpins swept from desk to desk, inspecting and assessing everyone's work. His bald head shined luminously in the gloom.

"Will you do it though?" Rose asked feebly as she stirred her potion.

Alice nodded tiredly and shrugged. "I suppose it'll be fun to see Corner and Scamander at each other's throats."

Rose sighed gratefully, glad that she could placate the ruthless Gryffindors by providing a referee. Her brow furrowed once again when she turned back to her cauldron. Her potion was still a resolute blue. "Can I borrow the rest of your moonstone?"

Alice passed over her excess ingredients, watching dubiously as her friend upended the bowl and emptied the powdery dust in one abrupt movement. They had been warned earlier that being heavy-handed with the ingredients could easily put the drinker into an irreversible sleep. Rose's potion was beginning to look as if it would cause a comatose state. Her desk was scattered with spilt materials, a gritty pestle, and sticky Hellebore syrup that hadn't been properly bottled. The cauldron itself was looking hazardously closed to the edge of the tabletop. Despite Rose's utmost efforts, the milky blue surface of the potion would not change to purple. She began to mutter beneath her breath.

Alice went on with their conversation. "As if we _really_ need a ref. Do they think we're playing in the professional league?"

"You know how people are with their Quidditch," Rose replied.

"It's typical. It's just the usual excuse for inter-house rivalry."

Professor Turpins called for the class' attention, beaming zealously from one of the desks across the room. With a claw like hand, the Potions Master gestured towards the steaming cauldron that sat in front of Scorpius Malfoy. "See this? An entirely white, liquescent Draught of Peace. The standard to which this has been brewed is extraordinary. All of you should be taking a leaf out of Mr Malfoy's book."

Scorpius was staring hard at the corner of his neat desk, wearing a small smirk on his pale face. Rose glared at him maliciously.

"Why have inter-house rivalry when I already hate half the people in my own house?" Rose muttered to Alice.

"You know that he's top of this class," Alice chided quietly. "Don't take it so personally. At least he's shit at Charms."

Still, Rose dragged her textbook towards her and began to reread her instructions. She slammed her hand down on the table, causing her pestle to jump. "I stirred clockwise, not anti-clockwise!" She felt like upturning the cauldron. It was all a waste now; she had spoilt it from the very first step.

"Having trouble, Miss Weasley?"

Rose jumped, and Alice shuffled away slightly, as if to conceal the contents of her cauldron from the Potions Master. Professor Turpins loomed down ominously, having a daunting resemblance to an owl in his silver robes.

"Er, I've just made a minor error—"

"Perhaps Mr Malfoy would care to rectify your mistake, as he has already finished his Potion."

Rose began to protest furiously, and as if by some miracle, the bell rang. Professor Turpins stood straight once more and vanished the spoiled mixture in Rose's cauldron with one flick of his wand. "Perhaps you could request his assistance outside of class, then."

"I'd rather ask a kappa for advice," she muttered in reply.

They were assigned even _more _homework—a foot long essay on the properties of moonstone—that was to be due in a week's time.

After lunch, they had Care of Magical Creatures with Gryffindor. Rose took the opportunity to sidle up to Albus, and let him know that Alice would be their referee for Friday.

"Excellent," he said fiercely. "Lucy will have a really good time."

"That's if James doesn't aim a Bludger at her face."

Hagrid ambled out in front of the class, leaning heavily on a rather chipped walking-stick, which was so large, it resembled a tree branch. He grinned to the class, his beetle eyes flashing, and gestured one massive hand towards a canvas table where a pile of twigs was stacked. As Rose squinted at them, she noticed they were moving.

"Can any of yeh guess what these are?"

Rose immediately raised her hand, straining to be picked. Hagrid nodded to her.

"They're Bowtruckles. They're tree guardians, and usually guard trees that are used to make wands."

She heard a heavy sigh behind her and a snide voice mutter, _show off_.

Rose looked over her shoulder and caught Malfoy turning away to mutter to André Zabini. Her anger flared up worse than ever—this was coming from him after his little display in Potions. Albus grabbed her sleeve and pulled her back around to face the pile of squirming twigs.

"Great, ten points to Slytherin," Hagrid said.

They were divided into pairs, and each given a handful of wood lice and a Bowtruckle. The little twig-man was only subdued when Albus scattered wood lice around it. Albus patiently began to sketch it while Rose fervently tore grass up out of the soil.

"Do you think I'm a show off?" she demanded.

"Just a bit," Albus replied distractedly. "Do me a favour and hold it still for me. I need to draw its face."

Rose plucked the Bowtruckle up. It wiggled its bark-like face back and forth, squirming in her grip."I'm _not_ a show off," she insisted.

"Why do you let Malfoy bother you?" Albus sighed, ardently sketching.

It almost seemed like a trick question. Since starting that year, her relationship with Scorpius Malfoy had significantly worsened. He was passively antagonistic at best. How could that _not_ bother her? "I invited him, you know. To play Quidditch with us this Friday."

"What did he say?" Albus looked up in interest.

"That there was nowhere he'd rather be less," she replied bitterly.

"Well, at least you offered."

"Don't give me any of that _you're the bigger person _rubbish—Ow!"

She had been squeezing the Bowtruckle so tightly in her fist that it had taken a jab at her hand with its sharp fingers. Rose let it go, drawing her bleeding hand away, but the creature was clearly offended by her handling because it began to violently swipe and scratch at her eyes.

"Gerroff!" she said, trying to protect her face. Hagrid came trundling over, raining woodlice down upon Rose to deter the Bowtruckle. As soon as it was distracted, he grabbed it in one of his enormous, dustbin sized hands.

"Yeh alright there, Rose?"

She looked up and nodded hastily, although she could feel the scratches on her face smarting. She could feel the silent laughter of Malfoy and Zabini from the group behind her.

"I better take her to the Hospital Wing," Albus said, sounding wary.

It was a humiliating way to finish the class, but Rose was more annoyed that this meant she would need to finish her diagram of a Bowtruckle for homework.

The awful events culminated in Rose's final class for the day, which was Divination. As Malfoy had chosen to take Ancient Runes, he was not in the class, which was perhaps the only silver lining Rose could find. Otherwise, the final hour was spent in the sweltering heat of Professor Trelawney's tower, with the suffocating smell of incense making it hard to breathe. The class was asked to read the first chapter of _The Dream Oracle_, and then split into pairs and attempt to interpret one another's dreams. The chapter was dense and difficult to get through, and by the time Rose had finished it, there was only fifteen minutes left of the lesson.

Most of the class was still skimming the chapter when Isabella Nott looked up from her textbook. "Have you finished?"

Rose nodded mutely, and the other girl slid closer to her table. Rose noticed, once again, how much she resembled a pug. Isabella turned her large brown, watery eyes onto her partner expectantly.

"Oh right, a dream." She paused to think, but was finding it hard to remember any of the dreams she had recently had. "I dreamt my mother was braiding my hair."

Isabella began to consult the _The Dream Oracle_, flicking through the pages. "A dream of braiding your hair predicts the forging of a new friendship," Isabella offered hopefully.

Rose thought of Malfoy and almost laughed. "That can't be right. Although, I suppose I wasn't braiding my _own_ hair."

Isabella frowned and looked to the book once more. "To braid someone else's hair portends an unhappy argument."

"That sounds more like it," Rose replied moodily.

"It doesn't say anything about having someone braid _your_ hair though."

"It's probably to ghastly to put in print—like the dreamer will die of dragon pox or something."

Isabella chortled. The hour was up, and everyone began to stir, packing away their books and disturbing the quiet with chatter. Professor Trelawney launched herself out of her armchair and began to hobble between the desks. Her eyes seemed magnified behind her spectacles, and her shawl was beginning to trail behind her, adding to her appearance of senility. "Before you descend back down into the bowels of the school, remember that you must keep a Dream Journal for the rest of the month, in order to interpret your nocturnal visions."

Hearing this news effectively gutted Rose. She had gotten more homework in a day than she was used to receiving in a week. She slung her heavy bag over her shoulder as the class began to file towards the trapdoor. The day had worn out her sense of optimism about OWLs. As she was descending the ladder to leave Trelawney's classroom, Peeves the Poltergeist emptied a bin over her head. He cackled loudly, throwing the bin down with a clatter and zooming down the hall. Rose, having had just about enough, burst into tears. Between heavy sobs, she yelled out like a madwoman, "I'm going to get the Bloody Baron on you Peeves!" But the hall was deserted, and so she wiped her nose on her sleeve, Vanished the rubbish now littering the floor and made her way back to the common room.

* * *

On that Thursday afternoon, Rose made the point to avoid her peers, both friends and family alike, and sought solace under the beech tree by the lake. The days were beginning to feel brisk, but she loved that tree. The quiet was surprisingly soothing, and the knot she had been carrying around in her chest all week began to unravel. Braving the chilly breeze, she spent a while doing her essay on moonstones, stretching out her handwriting to fill up the excess space on her parchment. Occasionally, she would refer back to her written notes, rifling through them to find any reference to moonstones. A few younger students were milling about, their laughter and conversations as light as a moth's wings. Rose had tuned them out, intent upon reading, and so André Zabini also went unnoticed, as he walked up one of the banks of the lake.

Most girls at Hogwarts would have called André Zabini fit, but that discredits the kind of appeal he inspired. He was as exotic as his name; skin the colour of creamy coffee, full lips and high cheekbones. He was cocky. He was indolent. He was a womaniser. I'm not suggesting that by fifteen all of these aspects of Zabini's personality were apparent. However, they had begun to seep through his penumbra.

The breeze billowed abruptly, blowing her notes up into the air. Rose leapt after them, trying to grab those closest to her. As she was still lunging after the loose sheets, Zabini approached, holding one that had gotten away.

"Here," he said, offering it to her. Rose reached up to take it.

"Thanks."

"You bind them, shouldn't you?"

"I haven't had the chance to staple them together.'

"Here," he said again, taking the bundle from her hand. He withdrew his wand and ran it down the fluttery spine of the papers. The magic sealed them together. Technically, he wasn't allowed to be using magic outside of class, but Rose wasn't going to say that.

She thanked him again as he returned them. He nodded, and continued on his walk. She puzzled over the strangeness of the interaction, but put it from her mind.

By the following afternoon, the friendly Friday Quidditch match had finally arrived. Albus had mustered enough players to form two teams. Roxanne and Dominique arrived out of familial obligation, but the rest were there of their own free will. Lorcan was strolling around, flexing his arms. As resident Gryffindor Beater for two years running, he had attracted a large group of girls, who sat in the stands to admire him. They giggled every time he looked over at them, so he looked over at them often.

Rose stood besides Angus Finnigan. The thin boy scratched his neck abashedly and averted his eyes. "You're playing Seeker today, aren't you?" she asked. Timidly, he nodded. "Excellent. We can't have a lughead like Lorcan stealing _all_ the attention." Angus smiled gratefully, a small crooked-tooth smile. As a sign of good-will, she made sure Finnigan was on her team.

In the end, the responsibility of splitting the group into two teams was left up to Rose, because Albus was too preoccupied helping Lucy mount her broom. It became evident that she was incapable of flying. Albus found it endearing, although everyone else seemed annoyed. Lorcan and James in particular did not want a rookie on their team.

"Alright, let's start. Alice, release the balls."

Alice did so with relish. Everyone stood back as the Bludgers launched themselves into the air. By comparison, the Snitch was discreet on its gossamer wings. Alice grabbed the Quaffle and waited for everyone to mount his or her broom. Although it wasn't official, Nathan and Lorcan had naturally taken the position of team Captain. They glared at each other beneath grim smiles. "Good luck, Corner," Lorcan said.

"You'll be the one needing it, Scamander."

"Shake hands," Alice ordered. They complied. "Now," Alice said, her tone thick with sarcasm. "Remember that I want a foul and bloody match. The only rule is to not kill each other," she stood back, and after a tense moment, she tossed the Quaffle up into the air. Nathan grabbed it first, and the game had begun.

Rose had tried to be fair when splitting up the teams, making sure that both had an even mesh of experienced and inexperienced players. Nonetheless, she was certain to put herself on Corner's team. He was the previous year's star player. She was not thick.

Those who played the sport took the position they normally held—Albus was Keeper, Lorcan was Beater and Roxanne was Chaser. Rose took the position of Chaser, too, which wasn't her strong suit, but with Nathan scoring so often it hardly mattered. Damien Lee and Lorcan Scamander were aiming Bludgers at him every chance they got, and still he wasn't deterred. Rose hovered in the air for a moment just to watch him score.

By half an hour into the game, quite a large group of spectators had gathered. A few second-years had tagged along, but the majority were fifth-year students who needed some end-of-week entertainment. As Rose was passing the Quaffle to Roxanne, she noticed both Zabini and Malfoy in the crowd. Malfoy was a Quidditch fanatic, so she assumed he had come down to examine this year's competition.

Rose had told Albus about the rejection of her peace offer. Her cousin refused to dwell on the matter. "Just because Malfoy has a problem with me doesn't mean I have one with him." Diplomatic, as always. The hallmark of a middle-child. Rose, on the other hand, could be a lot less forgiving.

When the game ended, the crowd began to disperse. Any of the antagonism that had existed earlier had now eased. The game finished with Nathan and Lorcan shaking hands, and Lorcan playfully getting the taller boy into a headlock. Everyone was laughing. The atmosphere had become effervescent and everyone was in a pleasant mood. James was asking for opinions on whether the Montrose Magpies would beat the Chudley Cannons in the upcoming League match, and got into a heated discussion with Roxanne over it.

The few people who had stayed to the very end to see how the game panned out began to make the climb back towards the castle. Among them was Andre Zabini.

"I didn't know you played Quidditch," he said abruptly as he caught up with Rose. Alice noticed who it was and lunged ahead to talk with Nathan and his mates. Nevertheless, Rose realised that her sense of privacy was diaphanous at the very best.

"I don't. I just fill in when I'm needed for family matches." Her muscles felt taut, and she regretted not stretching. She didn't feel in the least bit deserving of his notice.

They had not greeted one other, or even exchanged first names in a mutual sense of familiarity. In fact, they had _never _done that. Nevertheless, Zabini had no qualms in pursuing a conversation. They fell back behind the rest of the group, walking at a leisurely pace. He talked in a monotone, each word punctured by his lazy infliction. "I'm hopeless with Quidditch. I can handle a broom, but I'm not really a team player. But you were really good today."

It was not flattery or flirtation, but more of a statement. Perhaps that was why Rose was so taken by it. "Really? I didn't think I played exceptionally well. I'm not quite quick enough for a Chaser."

"No, but you fly well and your reflexes are sharp."

They walked all the way down to the Dungeons together. There was nothing romantic about it, despite the slight buzz lying beneath the conversation. It was the sexual excitement that charged most teenagers' conversations, and so, it wasn't unusual or special. In actuality, the entire conversation was oddly mundane, as if the two talked all the time. They didn't feel the need to say goodbye either, when the time came to part. Zabini just nodded and Rose smiled at his departure.

Later, Alice quizzed her on it. "What was it that he was saying? He was being _very_ friendly!"

"Zabini? Friendly?" Estelle sniffed, looking up from a magazine. "He's only ever friendly when he wants an easy snog."

"Oh, sod off," Isabella snapped. "He's _not _like that."

"He snogged me," Sonia offered wistfully.

"Who _hasn't_ snogged you, Selwyn?" Alice replied.

Sonia turned on Alice. "At least _I've_ had a pash!"

"At least _I'm_ not a slag."

"That's enough," Isabella said.

Rose wasn't willing to engage in any of the cattiness. It had been the longest week of her life. She collapsed onto her bed and crawled between the sheets, grateful to find her bed so convivial. Any dreams she may have had were blotted out completely by her tiredness, and she slept soundly, without interruption.

* * *

Scorpius had a new set of Quidditch robes that were labelled Captain, and he finally had the chance to wear them.

Scorpius had been playing on the house team since he was a second-year, yet it still came as a surprise when he received a shiny Captain's badge in his Hogwart's letter that summer. He was accustomed to being second in charge, taking orders and executing them with adroitness. Having the responsibility to run the entire team was both nerve-racking and enthralling. He had spent most of the summer figuring out tactics and reading up on professional flying techniques. A full-proof methodology had been composed and he was dying to put it to the test.

Quidditch tryouts were more or less a formality, but they tended to hold more credence when a new Captain was chosen. He smiled wanly as each student turned up to the pitch. Only two seventh-years arrived—both were previous players—but otherwise, the group consisted of a variety of inconsistent and inexperienced flyers.

The evening was cool but the sky was clear; ideal conditions for tryouts. At ten to five, Scorpius concluded that everyone had arrived. He held the sign up sheet in one, tight hand. Carefully, he counted the number of names written on the list and matched them to each face. The students were preoccupied with stretches, as if this would help their performance.

Malfoy addressed the group at five o'clock exactly. He cleared his throat and spoke over the top of his list. "All positions are open for tryouts, yet I should acknowledge that those who are more experienced in flying will most likely take precedence. Let us begin with…" he glanced fleetingly at the names. "The Chasers. Thorpe, you're up first."

He watched each performance with his usual stoical expression, but the solemnity only masked his drifting thoughts. He was already piecing together his star team. Only one member needed serious replacing—Dimitri Dolzhikov, the previous Chaser and the previous Captain. In his final year of school, Slytherin had performed so poorly in the House Cup that he was utterly disillusioned by the time of his graduation. Scorpius knew he would be the one to end the losing streak that Dolzhikov was so obstructed by.

He created a mental set of scales, weighing up the pros and cons of each person.

When it came to Keepers, Tim Buckingham didn't miss one shot. Scorpius would never risk replacing him. He was one of the most valuable members of the team.

The most pressing problem arrived with the Beaters. Toby Fleischer, a fellow fifth-year student, had been on the Slytehrin team as long as Scoprius had. Over the course of this time, he had been sufficiently trained to cope in his position. The two other candidates trying out was a lanky third-year boy and Fleischer's previous partner; Travis Norton.

Immediately, Scorpius began to weigh the pros and cons. Norton was seventeen, and had more experience than several other students combined. He was a capable flyer. Due to both his age and size, he was an ideal Beater. He had no trouble flinging the Bludger about. The sound of his bat connecting with the iron ball made Malfoy's bones vibrate like a bell. Still, the new Captain was tentative. There was one particular characteristic in the cons list that was interfering in the decision; Norton's temper. He was singlehandedly the reason that Slytherin was fouled so often in matches.

Scorpius remained silent, reviewing all his options. Norton noticed the hesitancy, and was offended by the lack of immediate enthusiasm. He threw his broom aside and stormed forward to engage in an argument.

"What's your problem, Malfoy? I've played with you a hundred times!"

Scorpius didn't respond, but continued to survey the group. The position of Beater was generally given to boys, more so than the other positions, because all it required was strength. A Seeker had to be quick and a Chaser clever. A Beater really just needed to be a brute. Unfortunately, the third-year wouldn't make the cut. The only real choice was Norton.

Still, the seventh-year continued his tantrum, not realising that this was only injuring his case. His words hit Scorpius with an explosion of spit. "You're a complete prat! I've played longer than you have, and I know this game better than you. If you don't choose me you're as thick as a doorpost!"

Scorpius didn't flinch. He turned to the rest of the group and announced that he would post the new team on the common room noticeboard by the following week.

Only as the group began to disperse did Scorpius exhale with relief. It wasn't exactly the way in which he wished to spend his Saturday evening. He allowed his eyes to deviate towards the stands. Isabella Nott and Andrè Zabini were sitting down the front, having a heated discussion about nothing in particular and hardly noticing that the tryouts were over. They had originally come for 'moral support' but had failed to provide any. That was hardly a surprise.

Scorpius was more surprised to see Rose Weasley and Alice Lim sitting further up in the stands. A blanket was draped over their knees. As Rose turned away mid conversation, her eyes momentarily met his. Scorpius immediately looked away, busying himself by returning the balls back to their cases. He didn't want to seem as if he had been staring. The September air made him shiver. He felt as if Rose was still watching him, feeling a gaze bore into his neck, so he took extra care in placing the Quaffle into the trunk. He let his eyes scurrilously rove across the stands.

Rose wasn't watching him after all. She and her friends were slowly making their descent down the stairs. He wondered why they had come—never had Weasley shown any interest in Slytherin's Quidditch performance. He felt as if he was a part of a joke he hadn't yet grasped. She and Alice walked back to the common room arm in arm, the blanket around their shoulders.

"Do you want some help?"

Scorpius jumped, startled. He turned to find Zabini on his left, arms crossed over his chest. His tone had been dry, almost teasing. Isabella smiled warmly by his shoulder.

"Help with what?" Malfoy prodded, unimpressed with the haughty expression.

Zabini motioned towards the trunk of equipment. Both bent down to lift it from either end. Isabella trailed behind them. "It wasn't as bad as I thought."

Scorpius shook his head. He was preoccupied. "Why was Weasley watching?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Zabini replied from his side of the trunk.

"I can ask her," Isabella suggested.

"No. Then she'll think I asked you to ask her."

"No she won't. I'm a naturally curious person."

They stowed the trunk away inside the Quidditch shed, passing a series of second hand brooms on the way out. "It's of little importance. I should forget it."

* * *

October had arrived somewhere between classes and prefect patrols.

Rose was swamped beneath homework. Her essay on moonstones had only received an A for Acceptable, and she was determined to do better. On some nights, she found herself awake until two a.m. finishing off comprehension questions or practicing spells. She was often joined by other fifth-years, who wore a similarly disheveled expression.

Once teams were announced, the entire month was spent in a frenzy of training for Quidditch. This was particularly true for Gryffindor and Slytherin, which were always the first to play in the season. Practises ran late into the evening. The Weasley-Potters began placing bets. It was the usual rush. Lorcan and Malfoy became obsessed, and took it as their duty as team Captains to practically breathe the sport. House rivalry surfaced in cruel pranks — tripping hexes in the corridors or itching powder inside herbology gloves.

If the hype had one positive effect, it was that Malfoy seemed more subdued in prefect patrols. He and Rose didn't speak much, and this was a vast improvement to the way things had started off.

It was a shame that October was wasted in such a way.

As Halloween fell on a Sunday, the festivities attached to it seemed more grandiose than usual. The Great Hall was decked out with pumpkins large enough to fit several people inside. Their ghoulish faces were stretched in glowing grins that lit up the hall. Live bats hung from the ceiling, their webbed wings like black silk. Some of the strangest delicacies were served up for dinner—everything from blood broth to chicken livers—and even Professor Longbottom dressed up in orange robes to commemorate the evening.

However, it was that evening that things took a dramatic turn for the worst.

Lorcan Scamander had hexed Travis Norton while he was on his way back to his common room. Norton responded with apocalyptic rage. It immediately dissolved into a fight. Norton displayed just how short his temper was through a series of blows. The majority of the school was in the Great Hall, so, by the time Professor Sharma had walked into the entrance hall, Lorcan had been beaten into the ground, blow after blow.

It wasn't every day that someone has his skull cracked open on the floor. You can imagine it was quite a stir.

Professor Sharma persisted that Lorcan needed his head looked at properly in the Hospital Wing, despite fixing the wound with a quick spell on the spot. The dazed boy insisted he was as fit as a fiddle—if the nurse claimed he was in risk of having a concussion, it was unlikely he would play that week.

As the majority of the school was enjoying the banquet, the news didn't spread until the following day.

When Malfoy found out, he had been furious. A rage he had never known came over him. He had lost his Beater, days before the match. He was certain that provoking Norton had been a deliberate attempt to get him off the team.

With a manic look in his grey eyes, he stormed through the halls, searching for the burly sixth-year. He spotted him in the quad —and despite being no match for him physically—Scorpius whipped out his wand. He yelled out a particularly obscene name to catch Lorcan's attention. The two boys had seen each other. The crowded courtyard stood still. There was a strange static in the air.

Amidst the crowd were Lily Potter and Hugo Weasley.

Lily gasped, grasping her cousin's arm. Hugo looked around, wondering if there were any prefects or teachers in sight.

"Come off it, Malfoy," Lorcan hissed, pushing back Angus Finnigan who had been walking by his side.

"I'll go get someone," Hugo said, sensing the tension. He fled from the scene and began scouring the school's hallways. Ironically, the first person he ran into was his sister.

"Rose!"

"What?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. He grabbed her by the arms and began to pull her towards the courtyard.

"It's Lorcan—and Malfoy."

As a prefect, she was obliged to intervene, but Rose truly felt like running in the other direction. By the time she arrived, Lorcan and Malfoy were bristling.

"You provoked him!"

"He had it coming!"

"You lost me my Beater the day before the match—"

"Piss off, Malfoy!"

In response, Malfoy pushed Lorcan hard in the chest, but Lorcan easily took it. People jostled on either side, wanting to get a better look.

Rose had seen Malfoy in a steely sort of anger, and she had seen him irritable. But never had she seen him in a rage. His neck was contorted, rigid. His voice was harsh and hoarse. Spit flew from his mouth. He towered over Lorcan, who was short and stocky by comparison.

Rose grew alarmed as Lorcan also withdrew his wand. She stepped forward, getting as close to them as she dared. "That's enough."

"Shove off, Rose," Lorcan snapped, not taking his eyes off Malfoy.

"Don't talk to her like that," Malfoy replied through gritted teeth. He jabbed his wand under Lorcan's jaw, and the idea of a Stunning Spell hitting someone that close frightened her. Rose pushed herself between them, using her elbows to ram them apart.

"Unless you also fancy being suspended from the match, _leave_," Rose said, glaring at Lorcan. With a grim look towards Malfoy, he pulled back and stormed away. His shoulders were tense, bunched around his ears. The crowd parted for him easily.

Scorpius shook with anger. "We settle this on the pitch then!"

"That's if you find a replacement in time!" Lorcan called scathingly in response.

Rose waved her hand at the throng of students, telling them to move along. Reluctantly, they began to head off. They wore the usual disappointment that came after an unresolved argument. Clearly, people were hoping for a duel. As the last few students began to leave the courtyard, she turned to face Malfoy. "You said _I _was a bad example as a prefect. You bloody hypocrite."

"It's not the same thing," he said through a clenched jaw.

"How can you justify a fight like that?"

Malfoy stared her straight in the eye. That in itself was unusual. Rose was used to him glancing coolly down his nose or rolling up his eyes in derision—always steering his line of vision away from the person he was speaking to. But not now. His face was flushed and his eyes bright. Everything was on show, right at the surface. She had never seen him lose his cool before, but the lack of composure was jarring. It was as if he had woken up and put on a Gryffindor tie. The look didn't suit him.

"Scamander aggravated Norton, he was the one to hex him first."

"So?" Rose demanded.

"So, Norton's copped all the blame and he's been stripped of his privileges! He can't play tomorrow! He did this on purpose—"

"You can just find another player."

"Why are you defending that _prat_?"

She wasn't sure why she was defending him. Lorcan clearly carried part of the blame. She continued to, anyway. "Are you forgetting that Norton hit him back?"

"Lorcan's absolute scum!"

"Oi. He's a much better bloke than you."

"I'm sorry then, Weasley," he replied cuttingly. "I hadn't realised your standards were low enough to include Lorcan Scamander."

She swung her arm back and punched him. It was a satisfying blow, the kind she had been taught from a young age by a household of boys. Her fist made clean contact with his cheek, and considering how much it hurt her hand, Rose had done sufficient damage to his face.

Malfoy stumbled back, his eyes wide.

"Shit," she muttered, looking around to make sure that no one witnessed the outburst. It was as if she was fulfilling all of the rumours a first-year could hope to imagine true. "You stay away from me, understood?" she said, before leaving him in the middle of the courtyard.

* * *

In her dreams, Rose was wearing taffeta that rustled as she walked. The fabric hissed as it slid over the floorboards.

She stayed in the in-between, snuggling into her warm doona. It was early in the morning, and she wasn't yet ready to shrug off the shroud of sleep. She could feel a slight twinge in her hand, and knew vaguely that her knuckles were bruised. Rose rolled over, dreaming of taffeta. Sonia Selwyn always woke up early on the weekends because she wanted to be the first to shower. The sound of taffeta was actually the shower water running. It was a relaxing sound, almost like a sigh.

The door swung open.

First thought—An ambush. The seventh-year girls had come for them.

Rose squinted towards the intruder, startled. Isabella Nott reflexively shifted between her sheets.

But it wasn't a seventh-year.

"Zabini?" Nott asked groggily.

"Sorry to wake you," he replied, looking not in the least bit sorry. "Weasley, come with me."

Rose's protests were ignored as Zabini picked up a robe and threw it at her. She stumbled out of bed, still confused. The shower water turned off. She began to search for shoes, but Zabini took her arm, telling her she wouldn't need them. Isabella was now properly awake, perplexed as to why he had come marching into their dorm. Sonia Selwyn walked out of the bathroom in a towel and was absolutely stunned.

Zabini pushed Rose into the hall and closed the door behind her. It all happened in a handful of seconds. He began to lead her towards the boy's dormitories.

"Tell me what's going on."

"According to Malfoy's black eye, you'd be a very good Beater."

Rose was agog. She had been certain Malfoy wouldn't tell anyone. That he would be too proud to spread the news that a girl had punched him, no less a Weasley. He could have easily said Lorcan threw the punch, or even covered the bruise with a Concealment Charm. She began to wonder if trusting Zabini was foolish—he had always been a very close mate with Malfoy. "He's barking mad. I must've hit him too hard."

"We need a replacement."

The boys' room was messy, but in the same way the girl's room had been messy. Clothes were piled up, shoes were scattered across the floor. Most of the beds contained quietly breathing lumps. None of the boys had woken from the commotion. The only person alert and vertical was Malfoy, who was already in his Quidditch robes and was sitting with his head in his hands. Never had one seen such a miserable picture.

"I got her," Zabini said.

The Quidditch Captain shook his head. "There's no point."

"If she plays we have a chance."

Rose had a lot of excellent flyers in her family. Quidditch fever was inherited. Albus and James had been bred like hounds. Roxanne was one of the best players on the Gryffindor team, and Fred had been captain in his time. Victoire was remembered for her airborne prowess. Then, of course, there was her father. The "Weasley is our King" chant was a story often retold at dinner parties.

Rose knew the ability was in her blood.

"She's not playing," Malfoy said.

"Why not?" Zabini demanded. "She's a decent flyer and she can pack a punch! You said it yourself."

Rose was chuffed, tucking a curl behind her ear abashedly.

"She'll have no idea what she's doing!" Malfoy yelled.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Rose replied, all the self-assurance whooshing out of her.

Zabini placed his hand at the base of her spine, pushing her forward as if encouraging a nervous toddler. This was enough to restore Rose's bravado. She had punched the Team Captain after all. She turned eagerly Zabini. "What're our options?"

"Either you or that third-year kid fill in for Norton —"

"I'd rather forfeit," Malfoy stated.

"—Or else we forfeit," Zabini finished.

"Let me play. I can do this," Rose said with conviction.

Malfoy shook his head as if sickened by the idea. His defeated countenance was enough to ignite Rose. She took a few steps towards him, crowding his space. "It's either you let me play or Gryffindor wins by default."

There was a shift in the mood of the room. Malfoy and Zabini shared a furtive look. Scorpius launched over to his trunk, rummaging for robes. He pulled them out and threw them towards the girl leaning against one of the posts of his bed. They were the official Salazar green, the serpentine 'S' visible on the crest. Malfoy babbled about how they would probably be a bit too big, but told her to try them on for size. Rose was pushed towards the bathroom, and the door was snapped shut.

She began to change out of pyjamas and into the spare robes. They swamped her, excess fabric pooling around her feet. She took a moment to assess herself in the mirror. Abandoning the drooping hem, she hastily began to fix her bed hair. There was a sharp knock on the door. Rose told them to wait a bloody minute.

In her absence, Zabini had nicked Norton's broomstick. The newest make of Nimbus was filched without the owner even hearing a whisper of sound. The broom was thrust at Rose once she had opened the door. She turned it over in gentle hands. "Will he be okay with me using this?"

"He doesn't know," was all Malfoy said, before adding that she needed to hold still, pointing his wand at her. He began to shrink her robes to a more appropriate size. Rose didn't own Quidditch boots, and none of the boys' would have fit, so she settled for wearing her joggers.

At breakfast, she was introduced to the rest of the team. Stewart Mumps seemed completely stoked.

"That's it then, we're playing?"

Malfoy nodded, as stiff as stone.

The rest of the Slytherins cheered, carousing and laughing.

"Nice broom," Tim Buckingham noted.

"It's Norton's," Rose replied dryly.

Louisa Edgecombe, now the only seventh-year and the only other female on the team, smiled gratefully. She offered a seat for Rose, and everyone began on a hasty breakfast. Stewart Mumps was demanding that Malfoy explain how the strategy had changed. Others complained that discussing tactical alterations at this hour would only put them off. Toby Fleischer, the other Beater on the team, requested of Rose an account of her previous experience with Quidditch. When she told him that she had never played seriously, and had never played the position of Beater, he looked unimpressed.

The team collected their brooms and sculled their orange juice. The walk down to the Pitch was sombre. The ground was damp from dew. The coolness of the air sent goosebumps up Rose's arms. Nerves boiled in her stomach.

As Malfoy turned to address the team, they lined up in front of him, hands tucked behind their backs. Rose looked up and down the line, impressed by their discipline. Malfoy cleared his throat. "We want to finish this game as quickly as possible. As soon as I see the Snitch, I'll go after it. Don't take risks, and play it safe."

There was a consensus of nodding and general agreement. This was not Slytherin's normal offensive strategy. Malfoy's goal had been to deter the Gryffindor Chases and avoid the Snitch until at least fifty points were scored. The luxury of an extended game was lost with a new player on board. Fleischer summoned a second bat. It was surprisingly heavy. Rose took a few loose swings at the air to warm up her arms, the metal cool in her grip.

The stands began to fill up with rowdy students. The opposition arrived and began mounting their brooms. Several family members laughed as they realised who Slytherin's stand-in Beater was. However, both James and Lorcan looked mutinous when they spied Rose in the green robes. The butterflies in her stomach soon felt like Cornish pixies. The pressure was on. She had something to prove.

In the announcer's booth, Rowan Finnigan—the eldest of the Finnigan boys—was beginning to warm up, welcoming the crowd. As he rattled off who was playing for each team, Lorcan and Scorpius faced one another in the centre of the pitch. Madame McCormack forced them to shake hands. She reminded them that she wanted to see a fair match. Both captains looked bitter in their assenting agreement.

Everyone was suddenly up in the air, the whistle sounding like a banshee's shriek. For the first time, Rose realised why Beater was one of the least desirable positions on the team; gripping the broom with one hand and a heavy, metal bat with the other was terrifying.

Finnigan's commentary was incessant.

_"And Roxanne Weasley has possession of the Quaffle—Mumps attempts to intercept as she passes—Mumps falls short, James Potter of Gryffindor has the Quaffle—executes a sloppy sloth grip roll there but manages to get away with it—" _

A Bludger, as if by some miracle, was coming straight towards her. If Rose could knock James off his broom she would be a hero. Malfoy would be forced to swallow his doubt. The ball whistled as it approached. As she moved to hit it, it whizzed straight under her arm.

Rose cringed as she heard Finnigan's scathing commentary—she was the comic relief—before he continued to narrate James' movements towards the goalposts.

Swallowing her humiliation and flying low, Rose pursued the stray Bludger. It took only a moment to catch up, and with as much strength she could muster, she hit it. The Bludger soared in a clear, straight arc. Her aim was good. So, it was with dismay that Rose realised Edgecombe was attempting to intercept. She was just getting the Quaffle off James' pass when the Bludger hit the end of her broomstick. While Edgecombe regained her balance, she lost her grip of the Quaffle. Roxanne swept underneath, scooping it up into her arms. She sped towards the goalposts. Tim Buckingham's fingers brushed the Quaffle as it soared into the left hoop. Ten points were awarded to Gryffindor.

Fleischer swooped down upon Rose, his expression contorted in fury. "Didn't you hear Malfoy? Just stay out of our way!"

Rose's face was burning from embarrassment. She wanted to rise up and retort but was unable to think of anything witty enough. Her partner had already flown off, dealing with two Bludgers.

Lorcan Salamander flew by, laughing. "Thanks for the favour, Rosie!"

He was going after another Bludger aimed at James Potter. Lorcan managed to bat it away before it made contact. Fleischer returned it back towards them quick smart, sending Lorcan and Rose into a chase. Finnigan's magnified voice resonated throughout the pitch, informing both audience and players that Stewart Mumps now had the Quaffle. Rose could not let Lorcan knock it out of Slytherin's possession. He elbowed her hard, trying to get ahead. He knocked her a second time. He should have been called up on a Clobbing foul but Madame McCormack's attention was occupied elsewhere. Having elbowed her in the face, he managed to get ahead and hit the Bludger, which narrowly missed Edgecombe.

Rose clubbed Lorcan over the head.

The whistle was shrill. There was uproar from the crowd. The game was called to a halt, just as Slytherin had been close to scoring. Lorcan skilfully exaggerated his injury, suggesting he'd need to land in order to recover, that his head was still injured from earlier in the week because of Norton's outburst. Lorcan had never taken time out of a match in his life—he had even once played with a broken arm. His head was as thick as a brick. Clearly, he was taking advantage of the situation.

It worked. A penalty was rewarded to Gryffndor.

A single Chaser was chosen from the fouled team. Lorcan smirked towards Rose. "No hard feelings."

"I hope you have a concussion, you git."

Clearly he was pleased by the turn of events. Roxanne flew from the central circle towards the scoring area, and it almost pained Rose to watch all the Slytherins immobile, unable to interfere. It was with great relief that Buckingham blocked the goal. The game immediately resumed. Rose gulped hard, relieved that she was not to blame for _two_ of the opposition's goals.

Malfoy took precious time out from searching for the Snitch to berate the replacement Beater. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded of Rose between clenched teeth.

"His head looked surprisingly like a Bludger."

The score was still ten-nil. Slytherin could have scored twice if Rose hadn't interfered. From that point forward, she did her best to stay out of the way. She flew around the perimeter of the pitch, feeling miserable, avoiding the Bludgers and the other players.

However, after twenty minutes of her self-imposed banishment had elapsed, Rose noticed a commotion. Gryffindor's Seeker was speeding up. At first, she expected that it was a simple diversion tactic to lead Malfoy astray, but after a moment, Finnigan confirmed the Slytherin's deepest fears.

_"Looks like one of our Seekers has spotted the Snitch!"_

Malfoy was now hot on his tail, but he lacked the advantage of a head start. Rose had a clear view of them both from where she was hovering. Her heart found its way into her throat. Peering out from a prison of adrenalin, she hardly noticed her name being shouted. She was pulled away from watching Gryffindor's race to victory, and squinted around until she descried Fleischer waving his arm wildly. Completely bewildered, she watched him then fly forward and send a Bludger straight in her direction.

Was he attempting to knock her off her broom, realising it was all too late and acknowledging that she was to blame? It was only as the iron ball whizzed closer that she understood. She raced forward and hit the Bludger with all the force in her body.

Along with every other person in the school, Rose watched the Bludger whiz in a perfect arc, its aim set on Gryffindor's Seeker just as he stretched out an arm to snatch the Golden Snitch. With a satisfying _crack_, the iron ball snapped his broom clean in half. His expression turned to terror. He attempted to steer his broken broom. Malfoy overtook him. In a moment it was over. With two fluttering wings peeking out of his fist, Malfoy held up the Snitch triumphantly.

Everyone was cheering. Finnigan cried out that Slytherin had won, 150 points to ten. The team landed together, gripping each other in a bone-crushing group hug. Everyone was screaming. Stewart Mumps jumped on Malfoy's back. Jonathan Sterling burst into song. Rose was swamped under sweaty arms and knocked by brooms and she couldn't help but laugh. All of her mistakes were forgotten, and all anyone could say was _you snapped a bloody broom in half_. Even Fleischer picked her up to squeeze her in a rib-cracking hug.


End file.
